Footprints Under the Window by Franklin W. Dixon

He and the boys then hailed a taxi. On the way to the city they mulled over the incident.
    â€œFive minutes here and we’re right in the thick of the luggage thefts,” Jack said. “Did you know the Griffins were from Taylorville?”
    â€œNear Bayport?” Joe asked.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    Frank said thoughtfully, “Why are people from our area the only targets? There must be a good reason!”
    Jack’s plan was to confer with local airline people and try to trace possible suspects. The boys would work independently. Soon the taxi turned into a dirt road on the outskirts of Cayenne and pulled up at a modest hotel.
    Chet brightened. “Civilization at last!” he rejoiced.
    The four checked into comfortable rooms overlooking palm-covered slopes. Chet immediately rushed into the shower and turned on the cold water full blast. The Hardys followed in turn.
    After changing into fresh clothes, the boys walked down to the center of Cayenne. Jack had already headed back to the airport.
    â€œSay, how about some chow?” Chet suggested.
    â€œAfter we scout around,” Frank said.
    The boys had decided first to seek some clue to Raymond Martin’s whereabouts in Cayenne. The next day they would go to Baredo. Frank inquired about transportation and learned that a launch ferried passengers to and from the island.
    The trio reached the centrally located Place des Palmistes, and strolled through the cool park, shaded by towering palm trees. Botanical gardens and a sports stadium were visible to the east.
    The Hardys recalled that Cayenne, populated by a mixture of peoples, lay at the mouth of the Cayenne River, which curled inland through wild, heat-drenched wilderness.
    Presently the boys came to the beach, along which stretched a row of summer homes. To the north they could barely make out the forbidding Huellas. Frank and Joe looked for the Dorado, but the freighter was not in port.
    At a restaurant, shaded by a grove of bamboo trees, the visitors stopped for fruit drinks. On the way back to town they purchased straw hats from a vendor and asked directions to the hotel from which Martin had disappeared. They found it without difficulty.
    â€œDykeman’s already checked this place,” Frank said. “But let’s see what we can find out.”
    The young sleuths entered the dim, stuffy lobby and went up to the desk. Casually Frank asked the clerk if Mr. Martin had returned. The thin-faced man looked sullen.
    â€œI already tell everybody—he just disappear— poof! And not pay his bill either.”
    Further questioning proved futile and the boys left. “Our best bet now is to keep looking for him in town,” said Joe.
    Hindus, Arabs, natives, and Europeans milled past the boys. Flies buzzed at fish stands and butchers’ meat stalls. Near some gray stone public buildings Chet gasped as a huge bull-like beast with curved horns clopped by hauling a cart.
    â€œA water buffalol” Frank exclaimed.
    â€œIf he’s taking to land, I’ll take to water!” Chet shuddered.
    â€œThere are piranha—flesh-devouring fish—in the river,” Joe informed him challengingly.
    â€œFlesh-devouring!” Chet’s eyes bulged.
    â€œâ€”Not to mention centipedes, poisonous snakes, scorpions, and crocodiles in the jungle,” Frank added somberly.
    The Hardys grinned as they strolled on. The Bayporters paused beneath a handsome mahogany tree. A scar-faced vendor was hawking cheap garments at a nearby shop front. The vendor, spotting the boys, held up one piece after another.
    â€œPants—shirts—cheap?” he offered in broken English.
    Joe shook his head. The peddler shrugged and next proffered a wrinkled white raincoat.
    Suddenly Frank hastened over. “Joe! Chet! Come here!” Frank had flipped over the coat to reveal a bright plaid lining and a large jagged hole at the hem!
    â€œRaymond Martin’s